


...It creeps like a rat

by oddegg



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-30
Updated: 2010-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-08 13:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddegg/pseuds/oddegg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things have to be done if Sam's going to get this right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	...It creeps like a rat

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: There are some glancing spoilers for past episodes here, up to and including 3x10. I wrote this before seeing 3x11, so despite how it may look, there are none for that.
> 
> The title is part of a quote by Elizabeth Bowen - "Fate is not an eagle, it creeps like a rat"

_We cheerfully assume that in some mystic way love conquers all, that good outweighs evil in the just balances of the universe and at the 11th hour something gloriously triumphant will prevent the worst before it happens._

_Brooks Atkinson _

 

“” “” “” “” “” “”

 

“El'n?”

 

“Bobby? That you? You all right?”

 

“El'n, I... God...”

“Bobby?” voice sharp with worry “You don't sound good Bobby, you're not hurt are you?”

 

“M'not hurt. Not much. M'jest lill' bit drunk. Oh god Ell – think I screwed the pooch on this one. Dean... But I had to Ell! Sam d'nt _get_ it, an' he wus so, so _frantic _t' try'n find some way 'at couldn't _be_ found. Oh god, El'n, I – Dean, oh god...”

 

“Bobby, what're you... Bobby, Dean's dead. He died _three weeks ago_. What happened?”

 

“Dead but not buried, El'n. Dead but not buried.” almost a sob in his voice, definitely a break “Sam... he wouldn't do an'thing with the body, an' he din't let me either, an' he wouldn't _leave _it, an' he wus talkin' bout try'n to call up demons and raise spirits an' make a 'nother deal an', an' I tried to talk t'him but he jest wouldn't _listen _so...”

 

He stops talking but she can hear the sobbing breaths on the other end of the line, the wrecked despair creeping through. Her heart twists at the memory of Sam still trying to save his brother even after they all knew it was futile, still fighting right to the last second. And her flesh crawls at the thought of him still standing by that same brother even now, still trying to find a way as Dean decayed beside him. And she knows what Bobby's done, knows what she would have done in his place. She says gently

“You burned him, didn't you? It was the right thing to do, Bobby. Don't worry about that. Dean wouldn't have wanted Sam to... You did good Bobby. You did good.”

 

A long, shuddering intake of breath at the other end. There's the clink of a bottle and a swallow, but despite it Bobby sounds more sober when he speaks again

“I had t' drug him, Ellen. I had t' drug Sam to get Dean away from him an' then...when he came to, when he realised what I'd done... God! He was so furious Ellen, he got the drop on me an' knocked me out, an' when I woke up he was gone along with the ashes and the Impala”

 

Silence from both of them, with the thought of Sam out there angry and alone hanging heavy between them.

 

Ellen broke the quiet first

“Sam'll be ok, Bobby. You gotta trust that”

 

But Bobby's voice is still pained when he replies

“I hope so, Ellen – I really hope so. I don't want to find myself lighting candles for another dead Winchester”

 

 

“” “” “” “” “” “”

 

 

She doesn't think he's aware of her at first. He's slumped down by the wall at the far end of the dark warehouse, but the sharp sting of harsh liquor meets her nose even from here and she can see the almost empty bottle held loosely in his slack hand. She doesn't think he's aware of much at the moment.

 

But then he speaks, head still hanging down between his knees, and she knows she was wrong.

 

“Come to taunt the bereaved, Ruby? Or to offer _comfort?_”

 

She almost winces at the bitterness in his voice, thickened and slurred by drink and roughened by grief as well. She can't see a weapon but she checks her knife anyway before stepping closer. Winchester's are tricky, she's learnt that, and she makes sure to stop a good way away from him, in the middle of the large, empty space.

 

She's not sure what to reply – 'sorry' seems crass, bordering on insulting to a man who has lost everything now, but Sam continues before she can open her mouth, still addressing the floor

“At least you came. I tried... so many ways, Ruby. Wanted t' make 'nother deal or something, _anything_. Nobody came. Tried for months now. _Nobody_”

 

“You've been blacklisted”

 

She didn't quite mean to be that truthful, but Ruby supposes pathos is capable of getting even to her. She can see Sam stiffen and his voice is sharper when he asks

“What do you mean?”

 

“Demons don't have to come when we're called like dogs, Sam. You were put on the 'no RSVP' list just after you pulled your little stunt at the crossroads. No one from hell is allowed to come near you now. And that includes Dean”

 

And she definitely didn't intend to let that slip. She tries to move and its when she can't get more than two steps that she realises something is _really_ wrong.

 

And then – _then _Sam's head comes up, and he stands up far too fluidly for a man with an eighth of a bottle of Jack in him and she never felt the spell, never heard the door of the cage slam shut, but when she sees his clear, cool, stone-cold sober eyes she doesn't even have to look up and see the devils trap hidden in the gloom of the ceiling to know that she's fucked beyond the telling of it.

 

Sam's smile has no humour to it as he casually leans against the wall and says

“And yet you came, didn't you Ruby? It could have been anyone, but I washoping it would be you. It's subtle isn't it? The call that the spell gives out. Not so much a summoning as a... beckoning.An enticement. With the added little element of a truth spell as well”

 

He comes forward to the edge of the trap and his eyes are hard as flint as he spits out at her

“Because demons _lie, _don't they Ruby? The one thing that everyone told me; Dad, Bobby, _Dean. _The one thing I forgot when I was dealing with you. Demons _lie._”

 

His voice goes flat, expressionless as he asks

“There was never any saving Dean from the pit, was there?”

 

Even though her mind is screaming _danger danger _at her she can't help laughing at that. Fucking deja vu. And Sam doesn't like that laugh. His face goes as ugly as those pretty features are capable of and he pulls out a gun from the back of his jeans.

“_Answer me!_”

 

It's not the Colt – Bella made sure that _that _went to the highest bidder, which wasn't the Winchester boys – and Ruby wants to laugh again. She composes herself though, and answers Sam's question

“No Sam. Dean bought himself a one-way ticket with his deal and there was never any chance of him getting off that train.”

 

Her anger at being caught means she can't help adding an extra twist of the knife just for herself

“And he doesn't get a day pass to come up to see you either. It's common knowledge that you've been trying to raise him as well. Sorry _Sammy, _but the mountain doesn't go to Mohammed this time”

 

His face goes blank, and she has a moment to think that she might have enough human feelings left for pity, before her arms and head are snapped back violently and held there.

But Sam's not touching her. Hasn't moved from his place.

He says softly

“I've been _practising, _Ruby”

 

She can't see him now with her face forced upwards, but she can feel her knife working its way from the sheath, hear the smack as it hits his hand.

 

She can't see, but she can hear him murmur

“Well, I suppose the saying works the other way too”

 

She can't see the knife, but she can feel it. Briefly.

 

 

“” “” “” “” “” “”

 

 

She manages to keep it together until she gets to her room, but then the horror of the day rises up in her and she rushes to the dingy bathroom to spend several minutes on her knees on the dirty floor, trying to spew it all out.

 

When she's done she feels shaky and her hand trembles as she dials the familiar number. The panic starts to grow again during the long, endless time it takes for the call to finally be answered.

“Bobby! Oh God, Bobby – you, you need to look out for yourself; you need to watch out for Sam, Bobby! I think we need to... The hunters here, they're planning on... Christ Jesus Bobby, I love him same as you but what he did to Missouri!”

 

Silence. Nothing on the end of the line but the faint whisper of air and Ellen grips the phone until the plastic creaks.

“...Bobby?”

 

So quiet now she can hear the hum of the bulb in the lamp next to her. So quiet that the walls of the cheap motel room seem to be holding their breath, waiting as the hair on the back of her neck starts to rise.

 

A puff of air on the other end that could be a sigh or a sob. Or a laugh.

 

“Bobby can't come to the phone now, Ellen. I'll be seeing you soon”

 

The empty sound of a dead connection. And she's left there sitting on the bed, staring at the walls while one more piece of her life collapses.

 

 

“” “” “” “” “” “”

 

 

It's still daylight when Ellen wakes. Only just – she can see the darkness chasing away the pinks and reds that the evenings painted the sky with, but there's still enough light to show the room; the utterly unfamiliar room, and to show Sam sitting on the bed across from her. Across from where she's tied to what feels like a post.

He has a knife in his hand and he smiles pleasantly when he sees she's come to.

 

“Ellen. I told you I'd be seeing you. It's taken a little longer than I thought – you led me a pretty dance the past couple of weeks”

 

Yes. And she'd thought she was safe here. After Missouri and Bobby, after the other hunters, she thought she'd disguised her trail enough to escape.

She hadn't even seen him coming.

 

“Sam! You don't want to do this; this isn't you – we can... we can get you help”

 

His voice is tinged with gentle sarcasm and absolute finality as he answers

“No, Ellen, I do want to do this. This is me. And thank you for thinking about _helping _me, but I don't think you'd have the stomach for it”

 

Then his smile flashes in genuine amusement as he says

“You know what's funny? This set up is almost exactly the same as that time with Jo. Its turning into a real family tradition” adding casually “I know where she is as well, Ellen. She's not nearly as good at the game as she thinks – you were right about that. But she won't be in it for much longer.”

 

She's desperate now; a trapped vixen with the hunter after her cub and the fear's rising in her throat, throttling her voice until she can barely choke out the words

“Christo, Christo – God damn you, you bastard, Christo!”

 

But there's no blackness, no stench of sulphur in the room. Just Sam looking at her with something almost pitying in his eyes. Soft-hearted Sammy, who she'd seen give that same look to road kill, and who's holding a knife in his hand like he forgets its there, he's so used to it. He has red under his nails but the knife gleams.

He says gently

“That only works on demons Ellen, you know that. I'm not possessed. I'm doing this of my own free will”

 

The sun's setting and the light from the window behind him dazzles her so that she sees everything through a haze of red; through the blood in her own veins. As though it's very far off she hears her own voice saying

“But that's worse. That just makes it so much worse”

 

And the last thing she hears, as Sam's sun-rimmed head dips towards her, is his low voice saying, soft as a lullaby above her

“Yes. I know”

 

 

“” “” “” “” “” “”

 

 

“I've sinned Father”

 

Father Gregory has been watching the tall boy for a while. He'd been uncertain what to make of the lad who's been sitting on the front pew for almost an hour now, staring at the alter with his elbows on his spread knees, hands clasped lightly between them.

 

Not a boy really; a young man, but at near 70 Gregory found that anyone under 30 looks like a child to him. Until he gets close enough to see the lines around the boys eyes, lines of hurt and worry that you only really get with age. But apart from them the eyes behind the shaggy hair are themselves clear and relaxed – innocent you might say – and the boys deep voice is conversational not tortured when he repeats himself

“I've sinned”

 

Ah. A man in crisis then. Gregory knows his role now and he smiles at the lad, and softens his tone to a consoling level.

“God welcomes all sinners child, if they truly want to be redeemed. Perhaps you would feel better if you confessed your sins and received absolution? Would you like to follow me?”

 

He's already turning away to the confessional as the boy stands up; unfolds and unfurls himself to what Gregory now sees is a great height, and seeing out of the corner of his eye the easy set of the lads shoulders a strange, fleeting thought crosses his mind that this is a man with no burdens – a man who has accepted his cross and carries it gladly for the first time in his life. He hears the boy say quietly behind him

“I don't want to be forgiven, Father. That's not what I'm here for”

 

And then it all goes black.

 

**

 

When the light returns to him he can smell petrol, and he finds himself tied immobile to the pew the boy was sitting in, his arms wrenched painfully behind him. And the boy himself is now squatting on the steps to the alter, a red canister lying abandoned on its side by his feet, stropping a large knife against a stone.

He looks up at the involuntary gasp Gregory makes and smiles

“Ah, good. You're awake. This isn't as much fun otherwise”

 

He goes back to the sharpening of his knife and says in a casual tone

“I'm nearly finished here, Father, and I know we're not in the confessional but since you asked before I'll tell you my sins to pass the time”

 

Father Gregory vomits on himself before the boys tale is finished. Murder – no, _slaughter, _desecration, mutilation, rape. Countless acts of horror told in that calm, everyday tone.

 

When the banal listing of evil ends, Gregory croaks out

“You... if that's true you, you're looking at damnation! No-one... no-one can shrive you of that much sin! You're going to hell!”

 

The lad looks up briefly from his inspection of his weaponry

“I know that Father. That's what I _want_; that's why I'm doing this”

 

One last incongruous thought – that the warm, pleased smile the boy has as he tests the edge of the knife and stands up is exactly the same as that of the da Vinci Madonna in the print above his desk.

 

The boy digs in his pocket and then flips open and strikes the lighter he's pulled out and tosses it carelessly behind him, like he has no doubt the flame will do his bidding; like he's set the things of God on fire a thousand times before. The alter cloth catches with a soft exhalation and the fire travels up the wick of it to the main alter, which gives itself up to the flame like it was meant to burn.

 

The boy turns his head and watches for a brief moment, before he turns back to Gregory and hefts the knife – and although the terror is so deep in him that its making him faint, making him lose control of his bladder so he can feel the warmth spread over his lap and legs, although he knows now in a cold, clear part of himself that he's going to die he can't help himself crying in an agonised voice

“Why would you _want _to go to Hell?!”

 

Curiosity. Always his besetting sin. And again, that small, soft, _loving_ smile – the same one he gave the knife – as the boy answers.

 

“My brother's there”

 

 

“” “” “” “” “” “”

 

 

There's no marker here. No grave. But this is where he put the... remains.

 

What was left of his life after Bobby burned it.

He thinks this is an appropriate place. There's no other place left that has memories of Dean anyway. They were never in one place long enough and as for friends places, well... he's made sure of those as well.

 

He takes a last moment to look around. Its bright and peaceful, and he would have liked to have come here with Dean.

 

He would have liked to have done a lot of things.

 

One last, long breath.

 

“I hope it was enough, Dean. I hope I'll be seeing you soon”

 

There's no-one left to see the knife go up, to hear the choking sounds. There's no-one left to hear the thump of heavy weight crumpling to the ground, to see the knife fall, dark and wet.

 

There's no-one left.

 

 

“” “” “” “” “” “”

 

 

_The essence of tragedy is to know the end._

_Charles W Ferguson _


End file.
